The bee, a mind within
a labyrinth of minds,
can tell the difference
between one and zero
between less and more
between something and nothing
at all—
isn’t that tragic?

To be unable to
tell judgment from justice,
good from evil,
days from weeks,
but feel the emptiness
buzzing, a Morse code
heavy in
your wings: beware,
beware,
be aware that you
will die.

Do they mourn their dead?
The loss of a synapse in
their hive mind, a portly
black-and-yellow exit sign,
leaving the honey yellow
stage of this mortal coil
with a final ****** of a sword,
a piece of yourself
lost in the soft flesh of
your killer,
a suicide wound.

Perhaps we have more in
common with bees than
we would like;
living
in service to another,
mistaking revenge as
justice, giving away the
best parts of ourselves
until nothing
remains, just the puncture
marks of our existence
writ in tombstones.